


You Can See Him Too?

by musicforlife101



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Language, M/M, Quick drabble, not really hallucinations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicforlife101/pseuds/musicforlife101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To John, it was fitting that the last of his sanity floated away on the second anniversary of Sherlock's death. A bit angsty, but with a happy ending. A quick fill inspired by a tragically beautiful concept from this tumblr post: http://thepocketmerlin.tumblr.com/post/39816569465/capaow-bethecrayon-watch-this-place</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can See Him Too?

It was a Monday, the 16 th of June 2014, at half nine in the morning. It was a thoroughly ordinary day, except for the fact that it had been exactly two years since Sherlock Holmes had plummeted to his death off the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital. It had been two years of people finding creative ways of supporting Sherlock all over the city. It had been a rough couple of years for Dr John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He was still living in their flat, in his bedroom upstairs. Everything was just like the day they’d left, rushing out of the flat in a flurry of adventure as usual. He couldn’t bear to change things. That would mean admitting that Sherlock was never coming back. At the same time, though, he had become accustomed to the emptiness that permeated 221B. It didn’t bother him that he felt all alone, that he’d been making tea for one for the past two years, that he was still relatively sane. In fact, he was surprised at his lack of mental break from this whole event. To him, it was fitting that the last of his sanity floated away on the second anniversary of Sherlock’s death.

 

On Monday, 16 June 2014, at half nine in the morning, John Watson was groggily sipping his tea at the kitchen counter, wishing he could get back to sleep. And someone was ringing his doorbell. Insistently.

 

The ringing was frantic, enthusiastic, impatient. It didn’t pause between rings, just kept going and going like the fucking Energizer Bunny. Sighing deeply, John padded down the stairs to answer the door. Standing on the other side of the door, looking small and apologetic, was Sherlock Holmes.

 

He was wearing his trademark coat, the scarf tucked into one of the pockets, trousers, and a light grey shirt. He looked thinner than the last time John had seen him, but that wasn’t really a surprise. In a rush, John felt very weary. He opened the door wider to allow Sherlock to enter and then shut it behind him.

 

“Sherlock, finally,” John said quietly. Then he went back up the stairs, not even motioning for Sherlock to follow him.

 

The next few days went by strangely for Sherlock. John spoke to him, his mood oscillating from anger to nostalgia to joy. But John always ignored him when Mrs Hudson was in the room. John would make him tea and leave it on the coffee table instead of handing it to him. He would come back for the mug an hour later and be surprised that it was empty. Sometimes he made food for Sherlock as well, or shook his head in silent amusement when the detective stole something off his plate.

 

Sherlock was taking a nap on the sofa one afternoon and woke to a loud yell of anger and John throwing a mug against the kitchen wall. He could see his friend sitting on the tiled floor, curled up and sobbing with anger and hurt. There were shards of ceramic on the other side of the room, so Sherlock walked over to John and tried to comfort him somehow. He patted John’s shoulders awkwardly and made calm, shushing sounds, but his blogger paid him no mind. Sherlock stood there awkwardly, not sure at all what to do. Five minutes later, John got up and started clearing his mess. Ten minutes later, he was completely fine. Sherlock was confused. He couldn’t figure out what was happening to his normally steady friend. He had no deductions and he was out of practice with emotions, seeing as John’s were the only ones he cared about.

 

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, still trying to suss out what was the matter with his friend a week later, when there were familiar footfalls on the stairs. Two sets, both very well known to him. Mycroft and Lestrade. They stepped in the door to the flat a moment later and he took in every detail they were unwittingly presenting. That, plus the distance and speed of the footsteps. Ugh. He didn’t need to know that about Lestrade, let alone Mycroft.

 

His brother smirked irritatingly, and Lestrade walked over with a case file in his hand. This might be something interesting and maybe it would take his mind off of John’s strange behaviour as of late. Unlikely, but he could hope. John came out of the kitchen at that moment, an offer of tea on his lips, and saw Lestrade attempting to convince Sherlock to take the case. John stopped short and every last bit of colour drained from his face.

 

“You – you can see him too?” he stuttered out.

 

Suddenly it all made sense to Sherlock. He stood from the sofa and shoved roughly past Lestrade as he made his way over to his blogger. John’s eyes were flicking back and forth across Sherlock’s face. They were wide, shocked, almost terrified. Sherlock took John by the shoulders and bent a bit too look him straight in the eyes.

 

“I’m really here, John. I am not a hallucination and I am not going to disappear.” John’s lower lip gave the slightest tremble. At that, Sherlock pulled his friend toward him, wrapping his long arms around John’s back and tucking the shorter man’s head beneath his chin. Sherlock had never been good at comforting people, never really cared about it, but at this moment he was mindlessly muttering reassurances into John’s ear. John was still shocked, though more by Sherlock’s reaction rather than his existence at that point. He just closed his eyes and breathed deeply, smelling the distinctive Sherlock scent clinging to the shirt collar and neck of his best friend. He could feel the hard planes of Sherlock’s thin chest beneath his cheek and the warm brands of his large hands on John’s back.

 

Mycroft and Lestrade had left some minutes earlier. John hadn’t noticed and Sherlock didn’t care; they were much too wrapped up in one another at the moment. When John had steadied himself, he pulled back, slipping his hands up to Sherlock’s face. He cupped it gently and smiled, happy for the moment because there would be plenty of time to yell and demand explanations later. He pulled Sherlock down and reached up to kiss him. Sherlock seemed unsure for a moment, but caught on quickly. Their lips moved gently against one another for a few moments until Sherlock became desperate, tongue begging entrance which John granted. He pressed John back into the doorframe and bent down farther, caging John in with warm hands and long arms around his waist. He kissed John like it was the last kiss he’d ever have, like it was the last thing he might ever do. Sherlock had never done anything in his life by half and this was no different. Indeed, he was using every single movement, touch and emotion he could to prove to John that he was real, there, corporeal.

 

Sherlock broke away, but remained in John’s space, foreheads pressed together and breathing hard in the same air. “I’m not going to disappear, John.” Somehow he managed to sound superior with kiss-swollen lips and barely enough breath to speak.

 

“Good,” John replied, closing his eyes and breathing in again as he let his fingers card through the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. “This is nice for now, but don’t think you’re not getting an earful about it later.”

 

“I would expect no less,” Sherlock said, his deep chuckle chasing the words before he tipped his head down into John’s space once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, this was a really quick little thing that I needed to get out of my head. I might expand it to be a properly detailed story of more adequate length at some later time, but at the moment this will do.


End file.
